


The Big, Long, Flaming ____________

by Chekhov



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Innuendo, M/M, Misunderstandings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-15
Updated: 2019-07-15
Packaged: 2020-06-28 14:08:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19813894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chekhov/pseuds/Chekhov
Summary: “Of course, if this doesn’t pan out, there’s always the other option,” the secretary added, almost as an afterthought.Aziraphale really should have nodded and left it at that. That would have been the wise decision, he would later consent, but unfortunately he was not one prone to wise decisions when his head was full Anthony J. Crowley.So, obviously, he turned around and gave the angel a polite and airy smile. “The other option?”The secretary rolled their shoulders in what was supposed to be, Aziraphale thought, a suggestive shrug. “Oh, you know. The traditional way. The more… direct approach, as it were.”The polite and airy smile had still not left Aziraphale’s expression, but it did grow more airy. “Direct approach…?” he asked, feigning interest out of habit.“You need to just… get in the demon’s face and just give him the old… UMPH!” With a heavy grunt, the entity behind the desk gesticulated shoving something forward. “Take what the Almighty gave you and just—just THRUST it right in there! You know what I mean?”Aziraphale, who had spent a significant amount of time on earth and among humans, immediately decided that he did know what it meant.





	The Big, Long, Flaming ____________

It was the off-season for holy water – if you could call it that.

Technically there were no seasons in heaven, aside from the occasional celebration of Christmas (which did not in any way coincide with the date and the traditional way the humans celebrated it). Still, there was a time to ask for holy water when less prying eyes and ears would be around to witness it and question _why_ and _where_ and _for whom,_ and _do you have a license for that?_

That was the ideal time to retrieve it for its very un-heavenly purposes – or that was the thought process behind the decision, anyway.

And sure, Aziraphale planned it this way, but the problem was that it wasn’t as foolproof as, say, The Plan. That is to say it wasn’t ineffable. It was just A plan; his flawed plan to stupidly save Crowley the trouble of robbing a church in some silly scheme he’d thought up. Everything about it was flawed, in fact – even the fact that he was thinking about doing it in the first place.

But it wasn’t as if he had a choice! The alternative was to stand aside and do absolutely nothing while his Demon--

Wait. Did he really think that? Was Crowley _his_ Demon?

Well, he was definitely assigned to thwart him, but that really didn’t have the same ring to it, did it? The idea that he and Crowley were tidally locked in their positions as enemies sounded a bit nicer when he shortened it to a simple possessive.

It was just easier that way, Aziraphale reasoned, dutifully rehearsing for a time when someone would call him out on these questionable conclusions he always came to. It had _nothing_ to do with the fact that he did feel a bit protective of Crowley on occasion. It had _nothing_ to do with the fact that, since 1941, nothing made quite as much sense as keeping tabs on Crowley, making sure Crowley wasn’t doing anything dangerous (for the sake of the humans around him, obviously, not out of any emotional attachment to the demon). And it most certainly had nothing to do with the fact that Crowley made him feel, for the lack of a better word, a little bit stupid.

He was loathe to admit it, but that was the truth. And as an angel, he was not prone to lying. It gave him indigestion, in fact. Withholding the truth, sure, that was morally fine. Twisting it a bit for the sake of a righteous argument – sometimes that was necessary, according to all his Heavenly sources.

But straight out lying to himself? After 6000-some years of acting like a complete fool around the adversary? Pointless.

Which was precisely why the events immediately following the acquisition of one (1) cup of holy water did not surprise anyone, including the angel himself. 

***

He arrived early. He got in line. He filled out paperwork.

**Amount of requested holy water:** 1 cup (imperial units)

**Reason for acquisition:** Anthony J. Crowley, the demon

(A tongue in cheek sentiment, but it was true enough to avoid feeling bad).

“Crowley, is it?” the angel at the counter asked upon being handed his application. “Haven’t heard of that one.”

“Oh, um,” Aziraphale scrunched up his eyebrows a little and leaned forward to confirm that he’d spelled it right, and then lit up in realization. “Oh! He changed his name. Used to go by Crawley.”

“Hm.” The entity was still scanning the page with feigned interest. “A name change seems a pointless endeavor for a demon.”

Gripping his tartan thermos nervously, Aziraphale gave a faint smile. “Yes, of course.”

“Demons, I tell you….” With a sympathetic sniff, the Secretary held out his hand for the container and then lazily leaned down for a spray hose, not unlike that of a beer line used in bars to fill up endless pints. “Pesky little things, aren’t they? Always know how to push your buttons.”

Aziraphale laughed awkwardly. “That’s an understatement,” he said, perhaps a bit too earnestly.

Not noticing anything, the entity nodded in agreement and stuck the hose into the thermos, pressing the lever to begin filling it up. “Think you can get rid of him once and for all with this?”

“Get rid of--” With a start, Aziraphale looked up, and then hurriedly schooled his expression into something a bit less horrified. “Oh, I- I don’t know, really. Might work. Might not. You never know.” He didn’t really feel it was worth it to mention that getting rid of Crowley had not been his goal for the past 4000… well, no, 5000… or really… 6000… years.

Never, it had never really been his goal.

He groaned inwardly at himself, only refocusing his attention again when the thermos, now decidedly heavier, was passed back into his hands.

“Of course, if this doesn’t pan out, there’s always the other option,” the secretary added, almost as an afterthought.

Aziraphale really should have nodded and left it at that. That would have been the wise decision, he would later consent, but unfortunately he was not one prone to wise decisions when his head was full Anthony J. Crowley. It was a testament to how good the damned creature was at his job – it had to be, otherwise it would be a testament to how bad Aziraphale was at his.

So, obviously, he turned around and gave the angel a polite and airy smile. “The other option?”

The secretary rolled their shoulders in what was supposed to be, Aziraphale thought, a suggestive shrug. “Oh, you know. The traditional way. The more… direct approach, as it were.”

The polite and airy smile had still not left Aziraphale’s expression, but it did grow more airy. “Direct approach…?” he asked, feigning interest out of habit.

“Well, with demons, you see…” The secretary leaned over the desk. “You need to be more… how do I say it… straightforward. They don’t do subtleties, you know?”

Aziraphale thought back to Crowley, and all the times when subtleties had been the only thing he’d gotten, like scraps from a dinner table he had a feeling he was meant to sit at. “Oh yes,” he lied enthusiastically, and ignored the consequent feeling of heartburn. “Definitely. Demons, they’re very… straight. Forward. Straightforward. Not straight, fortunately.” He scrunched his eyebrows together in a wince and then opened one eye to peek out and see if his slip up had been noticed.

It hadn’t. The secretary was gesturing into the air like a speaker to an audience. “It’s all about who’s the top dog with them. That’s why it’ll end in a great war. They don’t listen to reason. It’s about dominance and all that. You get my drift?”

Aziraphale nodded, in too deep now to be anything except encouraging. “Yes, certainly. Demons. You’ve got to be… tough with them.” He lifted his hand a bit and flexed his fingers into a fist, attempting something that was supposed to be a punching gesture. Instead it looked more like something Aziraphale was not supposed to know about, given his allegiance to purity. He hurriedly lowered his fist and cleared his throat.

The entity was still nodding, prompted forward despite minimal – or negative – effort on Aziraphale’s part. “See, that’s what I mean! THAT’s the angel that demon needs to see! None of this splashy-splash holy water. Of course, that’s all fine and good – IF you’re cleaning floors, and the like. Wipe some demon off the wall, get the stains out, I get that, I really do.” They sniffed royally, inspecting their nails, as if the very thought was below consideration. “But for a REAL job, you need to, you know, get in there. Get your hands dirty.”

Aziraphale blinked a bit, not sure he was following anymore. It was his own fault, really. He only wanted to leave peacefully, and that compromised his ability to follow the pep-talk. “Get my hands dirty?” he asked despite himself. “How’s that?”

“You need to just… get in the demon’s face and just give him the old… UMPH!” With a heavy grunt, the entity behind the desk gesticulated shoving something forward. “Take what the Almighty gave you and just—just THRUST it right in there! You know what I mean?”

Aziraphale, who had spent a significant amount of time on earth and among humans, immediately decided that he _did_ know what it meant. Indubitably.

Scandalized, he felt his mouth gaping and his face heating up to a vivid shade of tomato red. “I beg your pardon?” he choked out.

The secretary repeated the motion with their fist – rather unnecessarily, Aziraphale thought, because doing it more than once only added to the indecency. “I’m just saying – shove it up inside the bastard! Hold him down, and just… just work it in there! Until he’s screaming and begging for you to stop!”

At this point Aziraphale’s face color decided to take a pleasant journey into a darker shade of crimson. His imagination, not to be out-done, was galloping to all those places he rigorously avoided when in Heaven. “I-I-I… Is that… is that allowed?” he asked, reaching up to clutch at the place where he would have miracled some pearls, if he had the option to do so.

“Why wouldn’t it be?” the Secretary asked casually. “It’s what it’s for, isn’t it? It was made to do that sort of thing in the first place.”

The angel closed his eyes for a moment – and then regretted it a second later, when his stupid, human-stained brain gave him a vivid visual of the very thing he was sure they were discussing. “That’s… that’s true,” he admitted weakly, fanning himself a bit. His collar suddenly felt all too tight. “I suppose it is for… that… B-but I’m not sure how that’s--”

“And I mean, you should put it to good use more than once a millennia, shouldn’t you?” the secretary added. “Would be a waste not to. Gets rusty if you don’t, I hear. And you lose your touch, you know what I mean? You have been giving it at least a polish, I take it?”

The bright-red angel trembled once. Too shell-shocked to lie properly, he gave a weak incline of his head. “I confess, I have… on occasion… been prone to, erm--” He patted a bit of sweat from his brow with his sleeve. “Prone to… that sort of… use of my God-given--”

“Then what’s the problem?” the secretary demanded. “I mean, what ELSE are you going to do with it? Put it away and never let it see the light of day? What kind of miserable existence would that be? Gotta have a little fun. Especially with a demon running around, thinking he can do whatever he wants. You’ve got to show him who’s BOSS!”

Aziraphale gave another weak nod, feeling himself growing faint. “Show him who’s… boss… yes.” _Curse this bloody human body_ , he thought impatiently. _And curse blood!_ Without asking his permission, it was now traveling rather further south than he would have liked. He hurriedly placed his thermos in front of him. “It’s just that… I’m just not sure—with a demon?”

“Better than a human, isn’t it? Though sometimes those end up needed it too.” The entity returned to inspecting their nails. “Personally, I wouldn’t ever want to do that kind of thing to a human. Seems a bit overkill, doesn’t it?”

Aziraphale lifted his eyebrows, lips pursed tightly, and looked around for the correct answer.

“It’s just that – even if you find a human who really deserves it,” the Secretary continued. “The whole thing is over before it started. One stab – and they’re done! No fun in it. Whereas demons – some of the really stubborn ones – it can take hours!”

The angel clutching the thermos opened his mouth and closed it several times, failing to take even a single much-needed breath. “Ho-hours you say?” he asked.

“Yes,” the entity confirmed, without looking up. “Until they catch on fire.”

Aziraphale’s imagination, which had by now fast-forwarded 50 minutes into the promised ‘hours’ mark, abruptly screeched to a halt.

“Come again?” he asked. (This was, perhaps, a poor choice of words, but given the imaginary scenario it was preoccupied with that had been the vocabulary his brain had on hand at the moment.)

The Secretary finally had the decency to look at him. Perhaps they noticed the rapidly changing colors of his face, and perhaps they hadn’t. “On fire,” they said again. “You know. Given the fact that it’s flaming and all.”

Aziraphale stared. “Flaming? What’s flaming…?” That terminology had been applied to him before, certainly, but in this context it seemed a bit out of place.

The entity lifted their eyebrows, looking around for whatever had been missed. “…the sword?” they said pointedly. “Your sword?”

“My sword,” Aziraphale replied, blinking himself slowly, forcefully, out of the fantasy. Perhaps it was a euphemism? Certainly that had to be the case.

“You know,” the entity continued, slower now, as if speaking to someone who had been misunderstanding the conversation they were having for the past 5 minutes. “Your flaming sword? The one God assigned you? To stab demons with?”

“My flaming—oh Good Lord,” Aziraphale gasped, slapping a hand over his mouth a bit too forcefully. “The sword!” He shut his eyes as he struggled to decide whether this turnout of events was better or worse than what his imagination had been careening towards for the past five minutes. “My flaming sword! You meant--”

The entity leaned over the desk to get a better look at him. “You alright there?”

Aziraphale was not alright.

Not even close.

His mind was currently in the middle of a 90mph U-turn on the so-called Highway to Hell which would have made a very specific Bentley jealous. Except it was nothing to be jealous of – and the fact that the Bentley was coming to mind at all was a testament to how fast he had been going to that exact location – to Hell. 

Well not him, personally. Crowley was the one driving. Crowley always drove – drove him to do rather un-angelic things. In fact that was the problem wasn’t it? Crowley, and his driving.

He swallowed an uncomfortable lump in his throat and turned around.

“Something the matter?” the entity prompted once more.

“Nothing!” he called over his shoulder, an octave higher than usual.

“What did you think we were talking about?” the Secretary demanded.

But by then, Aziraphale was already gone.


End file.
